


Suburban Story

by Maggiee24



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Poetry, Mentions of spouse abuse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiee24/pseuds/Maggiee24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment in the life of an abused housewife. Inspired by Suburban Sonnet by Gwen Harwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suburban Story

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Suburban Sonnet](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/126888) by Gwen Harwood. 



Soft fingers fly deftly over stiff keys. The slightly off key music swelling and cresting with practiced ease. The sheet music sat unused in its place; the pianist recalling this fugue as well as her own children. Probably even more so; the music wasn’t fickle and ever changing in its mood, unlike them. However the beauty of the music fell on deaf, unappreciative ears. Her children conversed and argued, whispered and screamed in their own twisted fugue, drowning out the sound of her playing. They sat right beside her on the rug after all; it wouldn’t do to let them out of her sight. She was a good mother, despite the nasty things the ladies of the street liked to say behind her back.

Just as she was getting to her favourite part of the song Rue heard the sizzling sound of milk licking flames. Quickly leaving the comfort of the piano Rue rushed towards her tiny kitchen. How her husband expected her to serve him dishes fit for king from it, she wasn’t sure. “Ohh no”, the pot was almost black with burnt milk and the young woman couldn’t help but gasp in fright. Rue’s insides lurched, she hadn’t planned to stay at the piano for that long.

Fear crept through her mind as Rue thought of her husband’s possible reaction. Henry probably wouldn’t think twice about giving a swift crack of the belt to her ribs. They’d stung for a week last time he’d done it, and the bruising hadn’t truly dissipated till a week after that. Rue hadn’t been able to walk correctly the time before that, when he’d caned her thigh. But that one had led to questions. He needn’t have worried though, she was too terrified of him to tell anyone the truth.

Taking a deep breath to center herself, Rue set to work fixing her mess. The flame was extinguished, the pot left to soak as she scrubbed the rapidly cooling stove top while the heat assisted her efforts. Once the metal gleamed Rue’s distorted refection back at her, she pulled another pot from the cupboard and set more milk to boil. While it heated Rue started on the arduous task of the milk crusted pot, finally allowing thought to slow her movements.

Rue was reminded of the very beginning of her relationship with Henry. When their love consisted of stolen kisses on late night trysts and his presence alone had made her feel giddy with happiness. Back when he was the sweetest gentlemen she had ever met and she was still a rising pianist. Breaking through both the sexism and racism of traditional musicians. God she had loved Henry back then, their romance had been one for the history books.

The passion and fire they had held for each other had waned over the years of marriage. Gradually being replaced by the grind of daily life; like the running water took the place of the bubbles in her pot. Rue diligently ignored the salty drops that joined her efforts to scour the pot of its blackened contents. Washing the woes of her marriage down the sink like all of her hopes and dreams before. Her hands felt numb from the scrubbing and her veins ached with her sadness.

It made her melancholy to think of how she had once played for Rubinstein, the greatest pianist of their time! Oh the elation at being recognized by her idol. Rue fondly remembered the moment when she completed the final crest of the beautiful song and he applauded her performance. Shaking her head regretfully over lost opportunities, Rue took the fresh milk from the stove, pouring it over her deboned fish and sliding the dish into the oven. This was her life now.

Before Rue could have a moment’s reprieve, to catch her breath and reign in her roaming emotions, she heard distressed chattering coming from her children. Quickly rubbing her eyes with her apron Rue walked as calmly as she could manage to where her children had been playing. The sight that met her eyes caused her to sigh wearily. She’d told Henry to hide the mouse traps where the children wouldn’t find them. But of course that had been too much work for him.

Her two beautiful children looked at her with wide, trusting eyes. One asking so innocently “Why isn’t it moving mummy?” Her face must have given something away before she could reply, because suddenly they seem afraid at what she might say. Crouching down and herding them into her arms, Rue held her children tightly as she softly explained that the mouse had gone to a better place. “Like Grandma?” One of her angles asked softly. Nodding Rue agreed “Like Grandma.” Holding back fresh tears at the thought of her recently deceased mother.

Letting go of her children so she could rise, Rue grabbed the first bit of paper she could find. Using it to carefully pick up the mouse, freeing it from the trap. Thanking her absent God for the clean death of the creature. Glad she didn’t have to worry about what such a gruesome image would do to her children, how it might fracture their innocence. Before Rue could throw the mouse away a soft tug was felt on her skirt. “Mummy could we bury Mr Mouse, like Grandma?” The question was hesitant, her daughter prompted by her younger brother.

“Of course Sweetie.” Rue didn’t want to, didn’t want to compare the small animal in her hand to her mother. The wound of her passing still yet to scab over, too delicate to aggravate in such a way. But of course she relented. She may understand music better than her children, but she loved her children all the more. So if Henry had any thoughts about raising a hand to them, he had another thing coming.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was originally written for my English assignment but I couldn't help but post it. I'm just so proud of myself for it, it feels like a real stepping stone in my writing. Heavily inspired by Gwen Harwood's, Suburban Sonnet (As that was the requirement of the task). I finished it almost two weeks before it was due, which was a first for me. The hardest part was finding a dish that used boiled milk. XD
> 
> Happy Fic Hunting!


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